


The Night Before Christmas Raid

by RKMacBride



Series: Rat Patrol in Europe [3]
Category: The Rat Patrol
Genre: Children, Christmas, Gen, The New Guy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-13 01:27:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28645239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RKMacBride/pseuds/RKMacBride
Summary: Military Intelligence now insists that the Rat Patrol be commanded by an officer. So far, Major MacDonald hasn't been able to find one. However, the solution to their problem may have just walked into his office.
Series: Rat Patrol in Europe [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2026111
Comments: 16
Kudos: 15





	1. Back In Business

**Author's Note:**

> When I was thinking of the Rat Patrol in Europe series, I envisioned a little series introduction as if it were a spinoff TV show. 
> 
> The Rat Patrol In Europe  
> IN COLOR  
> INTRO  
> VO: “With the fall of the Afrika Korps and the end of the North African campaign, the men of the Rat Patrol found themselves abruptly relocated to London to continue their commando raids, this time against Fortress Europe.”
> 
> EXT. A London Street. We see the streets of London passing by, including familiar sights such as the Houses of Parliament, as through the windows of a moving vehicle. Then the camera pulls back, and we see the interior of a London bus. As it moves along roads, we see the view through the windows of the bus. It is a pleasant summer day with children playing in the streets, women shopping. We also see craters in the streets and bomb-damaged buildings. A uniformed bicycle messenger passes by outside. Presently, through the bus window appears the sign for WIMBLEDON.   
> The BUS CONDUCTRESS turns toward the camera with a surreptitious wink and a friendly wave.   
> EXT. The camera shifts to the exterior view of the bus as it slows down and stops at a bus stop. A man gets off the ‘bus, wearing an American enlisted man’s “Class A” uniform, with the insignia of a Staff Sergeant. It is SERGEANT TROY of the Rat Patrol. He walks jauntily away from the bus stop toward the camera, and the Rat Patrol theme can now be heard as someone is whistling it. [On Screen: STARRING Christopher George / Gary Raymond / Lawrence Casey/ Justin Tarr]  
>  TROY walks briskly up the street, which is lined with trees and detached town houses with wrought-iron fences or walls. He turns in at the gate of one house, waving cheerily as a middle-aged woman in tweeds and sensible shoes waves to him from her garden. She is their neighbor, Helen Wainwright the librarian.  
>  TROY climbs the front steps and enters the townhouse, which is a typical late-Victorian edifice with three floors. Upon entering, he doffs the uniform hat and parks it casually on a hat tree beside the door in the entryway. Opening a door to his left brings him into the small but cosy PARLOR, where Cpls. HITCHCOCK and PETTIGREW are sitting casually playing cards, and Sgt. MOFFITT is reading the Times. TROY waves the stiff manila envelope he is carrying and motions the other three men toward a door at the back of the parlor, leading into the next room. The rest of the RAT PATROL follow TROY into that room, clearly a formal dining room that has been repurposed as a briefing room. The walls are lined with maps and file cabinets. 
> 
> TROY nods to HITCHCOCK, who leaves the room and goes back through the parlor to the door on the other side of the entryway. He raps on the door, and then opens it.  
> CAMERA: HITCHCOCK POV . As the door opens, we see over the right shoulder of a young blond man, Cpl. ARNHEITER. He is wearing a black British woollen pullover. He is seated at a DESK in a WHEELCHAIR. The right-side handle and back of the chair are just visible behind him. RADIO EQUIPMENT is arranged on the desk in front of him, including a TELEGRAPH KEY. He turns his head and looks up and to his right, with a smile at the camera. Then he nods toward HITCHCOCK.   
>  In the BRIEFING ROOM, we see Troy, Moffitt and Pettigrew around the dining table as HITCHCOCK enters the room, followed by ARNHEITER in the wheelchair. Once all are assembled, the briefing begins.  
> [On Screen: WITH Hardy Krüger as Cpl. Friedrich Arnheiter / Donnie MacDonald as Sgt. Morison / Brendan Gleeson as Major MacDonald/Christopher Timothy as Dr. John Carey, M.D./AND Mildred Natwick as Helen Wainwright]

Chapter 1

Back in Business

**December 13, 1943**

On a cold, raw Sunday afternoon, a group of children stood huddled in the doorway of a church, debating where to carol next. “We’ll go to the ‘ouse where those Yanks live,” decided the oldest boy, and the leader of the little band of urchins. “They have pots of money, and if you’re nice, they’ll give you chocolate.”

“Oooo,” said another of the boys. “I ‘eard there’s a Jerry there with ‘em. ‘E might be a spy, mightn’t ‘e, Tom?”

“Don’t be daft, Jack,” chided the leader. “If ‘e was a spy, would ‘e be livin’ with a ‘ouse full of Yank soldiers? Besides, I’ve seen ‘im, out in their little garden. ‘E don’t walk right—there’s summat the matter with ‘is leg, I think. But ‘e’s a nice enough chap, seems friendly like. And ‘e ran away from ‘Itler, they say. I would too if I was ‘im. Come on, step lively, or we’ll get caught in the blackout.”

The fire that Tully had built in the grate was not too large, due to the coal restrictions, but it was serviceable. It was late afternoon, nearing twilight; before long it would be dark, and time for the blackout curtains. The four members of the Rat Patrol, plus their German radio operator, Friedrich Arnheiter, were listening to the radio and Moffitt and Arnheiter were playing chess. 

Above the sound of the radio, Troy heard something else. He listened, and then smiled. “Hey, I hear some kids caroling outside,” he said, getting up to see. Hitch hastily shut off the radio, and they all gathered at the window to see. 

The carolers’ voices rang out pure and clear in the cold air.

_“See, amid the winter’s snow,_

_Born to us on earth below,_

_See, the tender Lamb appears,_

_Promised from eternal years._

_Hail, thou ever-blessed morn,_

_Hail, redemption’s happy dawn,_

_Sing to all Jerusalem,_

_Christ is born in Bethlehem!”_

“It is so beautiful,” Arnheiter whispered to Moffitt. “But what do they say? _Ich versteh’ nicht...”_

“I’ll show you the words later,” the Englishman promised, remembering that he’d seen a copy of the New Oxford Book of Carols here in the library of the house. They all listened, the Americans captivated by hearing a Christmas carol that was at once lovely and unfamiliar to them. When the kids had finished singing, Troy shoved the window open. The wind flung stinging snowflakes into his face as he called down to them.

“It’s a lot warmer in here,” he said. “And it’s not dark yet. Want to come in and warm up? There’s tea.” He gestured to Tully, who opened the door. 

The carolers came in, three boys and two girls, wide-eyed and awestruck. They looked around them at the sitting room with its walls full of bookshelves. The younger ones stared at Arnheiter, too, seated in the wheelchair ...they’d never seen a real live German before, much less one who was missing a leg. Tom poked the smallest boy, scowling. “Don’t stare, Bill, it’s not nice.”

Moffitt greeted them with a kindly smile. “Getting any shillings?”

“Not much,” said Tom, relieved at the sound of a familiar English accent. “It’s too near Christmas, everyone’s spent their shillings already.”

“Well, we’ll have to see what we can do about that, eh?” All of the Rats were looking for whatever pocket money they happened to have; and Tom looked at the other children, signaling them to sing another song.

This time they picked one that everyone knew.

_“Silent night, holy night,_

_All is calm, all is bright;_

_Round yon virgin Mother and Child,_

_Holy infant so tender and mild....”_

The Americans and Moffitt joined them in singing, which delighted the children no end. At the second verse, one more voice joined in, in German. “ _Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht_...” sang Arnheiter hesitantly, and to the children’s astonishment. Moffitt instantly switched languages to sing with him, and for a few moments, all sang together.

When the song ended, no one knew quite what to say. “I am sorry,” said Arnheiter, worried that he had upset or frightened the children. “I am not hear that song since I was only a boy, same as you. No one at home sings them now. Many thanks.” His grammar was faulty, but the meaning was clear enough. His voice choked up a little as he spoke. “Wait a moment, _bitte_ ,” he said, and left to go to his own room. The four others had all chipped in pocket change to the kids, but he had no money to give them. He did have something else, he realized, and after a moment he wheeled himself back into the parlor, and gave Tom a slip of paper— his month’s ration coupon for sweets, which Moffitt usually redeemed at the Woolworth for him, for licorice drops. “I have one coupon only, so you must all share, hm?”

Tom stared in amazement. He didn’t know what to say, but he nodded solemnly and put the precious item in his deepest coat pocket. “Thank you,” he stammered.

Moffitt went into the kitchen and poured the children some tea, with a generous amount of tinned milk in each cup, and Tully offered them the biscuit-tin as well, with the last of the Oreo cookies that Hitch’s sister Barbara had sent them; the kids looked like they were hungry. “That should keep the chill away a little longer,” he said. “You know, I used to do that too, when I was a kid. A lot of us kids would get together and go up and down the valley, singing carols like that. I hadn’t even thought about it in years. Thanks.”

“Yeah,” said Hitch, “we kinda missed Christmas last year. We were out there in the African desert without a single tree or anything. No carols or presents, either _.” This year will be different,_ he said to himself, thinking of the box he’d hidden under his bed downstairs in the room he shared with Tully. 

“In the desert?” Tom asked, impressed. “You mean, out there with Montgomery? And Rommel?”

“That’s right. It’s been great, kids, and you sang really nicely,” said Troy, keeping an eye on the sky, “but you better scoot now, so you get home before blackout. Next time you’re out singing, come back, okay? We’re all a long way from home, and we like to hear the old songs.”

The carolers left, with the tattered mitten in Tom’s pocket richer by at least a pound. They had never had that much money in one day in their lives. “Did you see that, Lucy?” one of the boys said. “The Jerries are ‘orrible bad men, but that one—blimey! ‘E was right nice.”

Troy smiled as he heard that, and shut the window. Peace would come someday, and maybe when he grew up, that Cockney kid would remember what he learned a couple of weeks before Christmas, 1943 _. You’ve got to judge people by what they do, not just where they come from._

Hitch made a second pot of tea, and poured cups all around. He gave Fritz his, and eyed him closely. “You all right?”

Arnheiter nodded, a little embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I was thinking of a long time ago, before…” He sighed. “I was thirteen then. The same like him.”

Troy nodded. “When everything went to hell in a handbasket.”

“ _Ja_.”

They were all quiet, each man remembering Christmases of the peaceful past, before the war flung them into distant, desolate corners of the globe. Then the young German chuckled softly. “I remember two years ago, at Christmas. I was new in the desert. I was surprised when Hauptmann Dietrich let us sing _Weihnachtslieder_ on Christmas Day. He told Konrad, “Yes, you may sing what you wish. In Berlin no one will hear us.” There was enough food, because we had some British supplies: ham, cheese, fruit, and fish too. Kipper herrings, and sardines. Herr Hauptmann’s Christmas present was the fish; we saved them all for him. He was happy.”

“ I daresay he was,” Moffitt remarked. “That was a good idea, by the by, giving them your sweets ration. You do know, old boy, they’re headed straight for the Woolworths pic’n’mix counter…”[1]

“Yes. That was my idea.”

In his office at Military Intelligence, Major R. T. MacDonald had a visitor. He rose to greet the young man with delight. “Lieutenant Cameron! It’s grand to see you! How long have you been back, now? Two weeks?” They had known each other slightly, when both of them were in the desert with the 51st Highland Division.

“Yes, sir.” The young officer smiled, glad to be where he could hear Scottish voices again, but still worn and haggard from two months on the run as an escapee from a German POW camp.

“We’ll have to go and have ourselves a wee dram, _deoch an doruis_ , to celebrate. Did they ever stop you?”

“They did, a few times.” Daibhidh—David— Cameron grinned triumphantly. “When they did, I spoke Gaelic to them and pointed to Finland on my map—and they let me go on my way!” He ran a hand through his tawny brown hair. “There are times, Major, when speaking a little-known language is useful. It helped, of course, that the soldiers who stopped me had never seen a Gael nor a Finn in their lives.”

MacDonald nodded, smiling, but inwardly shouting with elation. He had had a bright idea, and it was looking brighter every minute. If Cameron wasn’t the right man for this job, no one was. “Let me tell you, Cameron, what I asked you in for. Many of the 51st are still in POW camps, so you’re at loose ends now.”

“Aye, sir, I am.”

MacDonald nodded, and changed the subject. “Look here, Lieutenant. You were over a year with the Jerries. What do you think of them? As people, I mean. Are there some decent ones, or is every last one of them rotten to the core?”

Cameron frowned. It seemed like an odd question. There had to be some reason MacDonald was asking him, but he couldn’t figure out what it might be. “Well, it all depends. Obviously many of them support the Party and its aims. Many of the older generation don’t support the _Führer_ , but they know better than to say so aloud; they know what happens if they do. And some brave souls are actively in rebellion against Hitler; they’re the ones who helped me get out of the country. That’s the best I can tell you, Major. There are good folk and bad ones, and those in between.”

“Aye.” The major leaned forward in his chair and went on. “Now, Cameron, you were in the desert at the same time I was. Did you ever hear of a group of commandos known as the ‘Rat Patrol’? They were loosely attached to the LRDG.”

Cameron shook his head. “No, Major, I can’t say I did. Why?”

“Because they’re here now. In the spring, we brought these fellows back here to do the same kind of work, behind enemy lines over there,” he explained, gesturing out the window in the direction of the European continent. “And now they’re in a tight spot. They’re three Yanks and one Sassenach, and they’re all NCOs. Two sergeants and two corporals. But some of our higher-ups in M.I. are insisting that they must be commanded by an officer in the field. We need to find an officer to work with them, so they can go back to making Hitler’s life a burden to him.”

“And you’re thinking of me, Major?”

“I am.”

“Why?”

“Because a man with the ingenuity to do what you’ve just done, escaping from a POW camp, would be just the man for the job.” 

Cameron sat back in the chair, a shrewd look coming into his eyes. “If I might ask, Major, why were you asking my opinion of the Germans?”

MacDonald didn’t answer at once, but stood for a moment, gazing out of the window before he turned back to the young lieutenant. “This group uses underground contacts in Germany from time to time. And if your opinion of the Germans were like Colonel Hughes’ for example, there’d be no chance you could work with them. He believes generally that there’s no such thing as an honest defector, a German resistance movement, or a German citizen who hates National Socialism. In reality, of course, there are thousands of them.”

Cameron nodded. “Ah. I see.”

The major continued. “You should know, if you take on this assignment, you’ll be living in the house with these men. Any objections, Cameron?”

“None, sir.”

“Good. There’s one more thing to consider, which is Troy himself. He’s been broken in rank once or twice for insubordination, before the war. He’s brash, stubborn, a bonny fighter, and brilliant in an unorthodox sort of way, so long as you don’t try to tell him his own business, which he knows a good deal better than you do. The trouble with him is that—  
“He’s got an imagination?” Cameron interrupted with a grin. He’d known a few Americans in the POW camp, and he recognized the type. Most of the ones he’d met were just like that.

“Aye, that’s one way of putting it. He does, indeed. Still want the job?”

“Yes, Major,” David Cameron replied thoughtfully. This was beginning to sound interesting. “I do.”

As Moffitt and Arnheiter settled down to finish their interrupted chess game, the phone rang. Troy went to answer it. “Troy here. Oh, hello, Major. What’s up? Yes, everyone’s here. No, we haven’t had dinner yet, just tea. Seven o’clock? Really? That’s great, sir! Have you told him about... oh.” He paused, listening. “Yes, I see. Fine, thank you, sir.” He hung up the phone and then stood there, staring at it for a second, then he turned around toward the others, who were all looking at him.

“Well, Sarge?” Hitch had recognized that tone of voice. Something was going on, all right.

“That was Mac. He says he’s got the answer to all our troubles, and he’s coming to see us at seven. So, we need to get a move on with dinner.”

“Well, well, well. What do you suppose?” Moffitt said, thinking aloud.

“I don’t suppose anything yet. But Mac sounded like the cat who ate the canary.” He knew what it was, but the major had ordered him to keep it to himself for the moment.

“Pleased with himself, was he?”

“Yeah. So let’s shake it. Who’s cooking tonight?”

It was Moffitt and Hitch’s turn in the kitchen. The food was never anything inspiring, but by pooling four men’s military ration allowances, plus what ration coupons Fritz got, there was at least enough to eat. In addition, they got occasional packages from home containing such American delicacies as Fig Newtons, peanut butter, grits, and homemade brownies. And out back was the victory garden, which still had carrots and turnips in it; as long as the ground didn’t freeze, they’d keep well enough.

As Troy was collecting the dishes, he remembered something. “Fritz,” he said, “the Major’s bringing someone with him. You might want to go put your leg back on.” The German corporal had already taken it off for the evening, having been in it all day.

Arnheiter nodded. “ _Danke_.” He headed for his room. 

As they cleared the table, Moffitt caught Troy’s attention. “Look here, Troy, do you know what this is all about?”

“Some. Mac told me not to say any more, though.”

“He’s found us an officer, hasn’t he?”

It was hopeless to try keeping anything from Moffitt. “Yeah. But don’t say anything. How’d you guess?”

The English sergeant replied calmly, “You sent Arnheiter to put his leg on. You didn’t want him to be embarrassed meeting a visitor. It wasn’t difficult to add two and two.”

Troy shrugged. “Yeah. You’re right there. I wish he wouldn’t be so worried about that; it’s nothing to be ashamed about.” He sighed. “Never mind. We’ve got company coming. Go take care of the library, Hitch. Most of that stuff in there’s yours. And take that sign of yours off the radio room door.” As a joke, Hitch and Tully had made an official-looking stenciled pasteboard sign for Arnheiter’s door that read _Sendungsraum._

Hitch grinned. “Right, Sarge.”

Precisely at seven, the car arrived, and Moffitt went to let their visitors in. Major MacDonald came in, followed by a pleasant-looking young lieutenant with light brown hair, green eyes, and freckles. Troy and the two officers exchanged salutes. Cameron glanced around the room and stopped short. Hadn’t Major MacDonald said there were four men in this group? Here, there were five—and the fifth one was obviously a German, and wearing civilian clothes with a black British Army pullover. What was going on?

“Good evening, gentlemen,” said the major, with a little more formality than usual, as the members of the Rat Patrol rose to meet him. “Allow me to introduce you. This is Lieutenant David Cameron, of the 51st Highland Division. Cameron, this is Sergeant Sam Troy, Sergeant Jack Moffitt of the Scots Greys, and Corporals Mark Hitchcock and Tully Pettigrew.” _Now for the moment of truth..._ he thought. “And this, Lieutenant, is the fifth member of the team: Corporal Friedrich Arnheiter, formerly of the _Afrika Korps_ , and now assisting Military Intelligence. He’s our radio operator.” MacDonald watched Cameron’s face to observe his reaction.

The young Scot was surprised, but not appalled _. So that’s it... he was worried that I’d mind having a German defector aboard._ “A pleasure to meet you all, I’m sure,” he replied with poise. “The major has been telling me about some of your group’s exploits, Sergeant.”

Once the introductions had been made, they all sat down. MacDonald privately breathed a sigh of relief, and began to believe that this idea would work after all. He knew what Cameron had said about his opinion of working with Germans, but he had to be sure. If the officer could not accept Arnheiter, it would make things very difficult. “I will go and make the tea,” said Arnheiter as he got to his feet and made for the kitchen.

“Troy, I brought the lieutenant here to meet you,” explained the major, “because I think he is just the man for this job. He was in the desert, as you and your patrol were, and was captured with the 51st in the summer of 1942. He spent the last year in a German POW camp and escaped in late September. The last two months, he has spent evading capture and making his way on foot into Denmark, where he was met by a fishing boat, and he made it back here just a fortnight ago. So, he has the right sort of experience at acting alone behind enemy lines, and he knows how to deal with the _Widerstand_ , or he’d not have made it. I’ve explained to him about billeting here in the house, and told him about what you’ve been doing.”

Troy was nodding as he listened. Mac was right; this lieutenant sounded good. They talked for some time, explaining how the Americans had become involved in the desert campaign, and how they had eventually come to London and been attached to MI. Presently, the teakettle whistled, followed by various noises from the kitchen. “I’ll go help Fritz with the tea,” offered Hitch. He rose and went to the kitchen, returning with a tray bearing cups and saucers, sugar bowl and milk pitcher. Arnheiter followed him, carrying the teapot carefully in his left hand and using his cane with the right.

“Thanks, Fritz,” said Troy as the corporal set the steaming teapot on the table and sat down.

“ _Bitte_ ,” he replied; he knew enough English to say ‘you’re welcome’, but he often forgot.

“Well, now,” said Lieutenant Cameron, in his soft Highlands accent, “I’ve heard all about these four men here, but I’ve not heard much about you, Corporal. How did you come to be here?” 

Arnheiter was, understandably, anxious. His blue eyes looked from Troy to MacDonald to Hitch and back to the lieutenant. “I don't know what I should say, sir.”

“Easy, lad,” said the major in a fatherly tone. “You’re not in trouble. Start by telling him about what you did in the desert, and then how you came here. Take your time, and we’ll help you if you can’t think of the right words.”

Then Cameron smiled warmly, and demolished the language barrier with one stroke. “ _Sie können mir alles auf Deutsch erzählen. Ich verstehe ganz gut.”_

 _“Danke, Herr Oberleutnant,”_ said Friedrich, relieved, and he responded with a veritable torrent of words. He told the lieutenant about his service in France, and how he’d been transferred to the Afrika Korps, and about Dietrich, and how he first encountered the Rat Patrol. He followed that by explaining that he was wounded and captured by the British at the battle of El Alamein, and some of what had happened since then, ending with his decision to defect. He was perfectly willing to tell anything that Cameron wanted to know; most of his anxiety had been because he didn’t know how to explain all that in English to someone he didn’t know. He was very skilled at many things, but language learning was not one of his strong suits.

The lieutenant nodded as Arnheiter finished. “Very good,” he said in English. “That was a brave decision to make. But are you well now? _Sind Sie jetzt gesund_?”

Arnheiter replied, “I understand English better that I speak it... Yes, I am well, but the knee that is not there hurts me often very much. Sometimes the foot, too. I have medicine at night to sleep.” He eyed Cameron with some nervousness, expecting that the officer would not believe it. Many people didn’t, he had discovered.

“Oh, aye. I knew a fellow in the POW camp with me who had a phantom arm, and it hurt like the very devil; he said it was like having his hand in the fire.” Arnheiter nodded emphatically. Cameron continued. “The camp doctor was a complete fool, of course, and didn’t believe him. He refused to give him anything for the pain, and the poor chap nearly went mad. Don’t worry, Corporal, I know all about that sort of thing,” the young officer assured him.

_Well, what do you know?_ Troy said to himself, impressed _. I think I like this fellow. He’s got sense. This could be good...._

After they’d had their tea and talked some more, MacDonald looked at all of them. “Well, gentlemen, I intend to arrange for Lt. Cameron’s assignment to this unit, if there are no objections. What do you all say? Any objections?”

David Cameron responded, firmly, “None whatever, Major.”

“Are you sure, now? ‘Highly irregular’ doesn’t begin to describe this unholy crew, Lieutenant.” MacDonald was grinning, but he was serious as well.

“I’m sure, sir, if they are.”

Troy looked at his men’s faces. Tully was looking calmly satisfied, Hitch was beaming, and Moffitt—well, Moffitt looked like a hound eager for the hunt. He didn’t even have to ask them the question. “That goes for us, too, Major.”

“That’s grand,” said Cameron, and unexpectedly rose and offered Troy a handshake. “I’m glad to be working with you, Sergeant. I say, we really ought to drink to this—is there anything in the house?”

“There’s about a half bottle of brandy, but that’s all,” replied Moffitt. “Will that do, sir?”

“Admirably. Don’t bother about glasses; the teacups will serve just as well.”

Moffitt returned with the bottle, and poured some into each of the seven cups. “I’d like to propose a toast,” he said, as he poured his own cup last.

“Very well, Sergeant, carry on.”

The lone Englishman raised his cup. “Success to us, and confusion to our enemies.”

They all drank to that, and MacDonald looked around, pleased with himself. This was going to work beautifully, he was sure of it. “To the success of the Rat Patrol,” he added.

After the two officers left, Troy turned to the others. “Well, what do you think?” 

“Seems all right to me,” said Tully. “I like him more than I liked Boggs, anyway.”

“Do you know, I’m glad he’s a Scot,” Moffitt mused aloud. 

“How come?” Hitch asked. “Because he’s like Major Mac?”

“No, though that ought to help—they obviously understand one another. It’s not something I can put into words exactly, but I’ve known rather a lot of them in the past, when I was with the Greys, and they tend to be, well, unorthodox in their own ways.”

Troy nodded and turned his attention to Fritz, who had fallen silent after his conversation with the lieutenant. “What about you, Fritz?”

The young German was surprised. “Why do you ask me? It matters not what I think...”

“Sure it does. Do you think you can deal with him? If not, I’d better know it.”

Arnheiter nodded. “I think so. His words were kind. And he is not like Colonel Hughes, who distrusts me. Yes, I can ‘deal with’ him,” he answered Troy soberly.

“Good. He seems OK by me, too.” Troy grinned. “I think we’re back in business.”

[1] See <http://www.woolworthsmuseum.co.uk/pnmrationing.html>


	2. The Lieutenant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lieutenant Daibhidh Cameron and the Rat Patrol become better acquainted.

Early the next morning, Lt. Cameron arrived in M Street with his belongings, few though they were. He still needed to replace a number of items that he’d lost when he was captured.

The house itself met with his approval. Besides the made-over study on the ground floor that had become the radio room, it had two bedrooms on the first floor[1], three on the second floor, and two smaller ones below stairs, which would have been the servants’ quarters once upon a time. As he unpacked his kit and folded shirts into drawers, delicious smells from the kitchen prompted him to hurry. He finished his task, and headed briskly downstairs. He liked beginnings, and starting new things, the more interesting, the better. And this challenge looked to be interesting indeed, in all the right ways. 

Coming into the kitchen, what he saw met with his approval: there was porridge, and scrambled eggs, and bacon—not much, but much better than none. They had explained to him the informal arrangement with Mrs. Wainwright across the back garden lane, and her sharing the bounty from her henhouse in return for dog walking when the junior members of the patrol had the time. The brace of fox terriers that had belonged to her late son were a bit of a handful for her to manage.

Cameron hadn’t eaten this well in a year. There were six places set, and Troy was just placing the coffee pot on the table; he looked up and smiled. “Good morning, Lieutenant. The head of the table’s yours.”

“Good morning. Thank you.” The young officer pulled out the chair and sat down. “One thing I meant to ask last night; when you chaps are over there on a mission, this Arnheiter chap’s here all alone? I can’t say I like that idea.”

Troy nodded. “When we’re gone, Sergeant Morison from Major Mac’s office comes by every day to check on him and make sure everything’s all right here. Fritz also has a phone in there by the radio that is connected directly to MacDonald’s office; that’s the phone he uses to give Mac the messages from us. If he has a problem, he could use that if he needed to. I’m not really happy about it, either, but right now that’s how it is. And if worse comes to worst, there is an emergency arrangement,” Troy added, and explained about Moffitt’s old service pistol he had placed in the desk drawer of the briefing room. “I know we need to get him a backup, but Mac had enough trouble just finding him. Considering everything else happening, finding someone else in M.I. just to be here when we’re not isn’t a high priority for them.”

“And he gets on all right by himself?”

“Generally. I wouldn’t worry, sir. He’s been with us since July and there haven’t been any problems to speak of.”

“Good. Ah, here are the others, I think,” Cameron said, hearing footsteps from below as Hitch and Tully came upstairs. Within a few minutes, Moffitt joined them, freshly shaved; Arnheiter came in shortly after that.

There was little conversation as the six men devoured Troy’s cooking with pleasure. After breakfast, Moffitt gathered up the plates, stacked them in the kitchen sink, and made more tea. 

“Thank you, gentlemen,” Cameron said. “I suppose the next thing is to give me the Cook’s tour of your operation and setup here. The more I know, the better.”

“That’s the idea.” Troy and Moffitt went with him through the whole house, beginning with the briefing room, which had originally been the formal dining room until they had taken over the house for their operations.

Arnheiter, having drawn the short straw on Sunday afternoon, had the K.P. duty for the week, so he remained behind in the kitchen to do the dishes and clean up. He left the dishes and pans soaking in the sink while he poured more hot water into a pail and grabbed the mop. Done daily, it took no more than a few minutes to swab the red-clay tile floor from one end to the other. He heard the footsteps and voices of the others as they went downstairs to show the lieutenant the room that Hitch and Tully shared, the cellar, and the room that they used for calisthenics and P.T.

After he set the mop outside on the back stoop to dry, he set out the dish drainer and started washing the six place settings from their breakfast. As he did the familiar chore, he began singing to himself a melody he had learned from Dr. MacNèill in the POW camp at Dalcorrie. He didn’t know the words, but he had heard the phonograph record dozens of times.

Suddenly, there were footsteps coming rapidly up the cellar stairs, and Lt. Cameron burst into the kitchen. Startled, Arnheiter stopped singing. “I did hear that!” the young officer exclaimed. “For a moment there, I thought I imagined it. But— how on earth do you know ‘ _Eilean Mo Chridhe’_?”[2] He shook his head, bewildered.

Arnheiter grinned, realizing that he wasn’t in trouble. “Oh,” he said. “This song…?” He sang a few notes again, wordlessly.

“Yes! That’s a song from the last war,” Cameron explained, “by a young lad remembering his home in Skye. How do you come to know it?”

“That was _Herr Doktor_ MacNèill,” Arnheiter explained, putting down the dishtowel and the teacup. “He used it for teaching me to walk.” By that point, all five men were in the kitchen.

“I didn’t know that,” said Troy. “I just heard you say you learned it in the camp.”

They were clearly waiting for him to tell the story, so the radio operator began. “In _Januar_ , they fit me with the new leg. But I could not do it well. I fell, or I was dragging it, and had much trouble.”

“I daresay you did,” Cameron said quietly. “What happened then?”

“Then MacNèill and I worked together many times. He had the idea of the phonograph, to use music. But not marching music or soldier songs. Too fast, he said. We need something slower. He heard a song on the local radio and said, that is the right kind of song. Then he puts a record on the phonograph and I must listen and move each foot in the right time, like a _Kadenz_. His record was that song.”

“Brilliant,” said Moffitt, with admiration. “Just what the doctor ordered.”

“Yes. We used two or three other songs, too. But almost every day I heard that one. Many, many times, a hundred perhaps. I know not the words—but I will know that song until I die.”

The sandy-haired lieutenant was shaking his head, marveling. Then he looked Arnheiter in the eye, and started to sing, clearly inviting him to join in where he could.

_'S truagh nach robh mis' ann an eilean mo chrìdh',  
Eilean mo ghràidh far an d'àraicheadh mi,  
'S truagh nach robh mis' ann an eilean mo chrìdh',  
Eilean nam fuar-bheann àrda._

_'S mis' a bhiodh sona nan robh mi an-dràsd'_  
_Ri taobh na cruaich-mhònadh, an cnocan a’ tàmh;_  
_'S an ceò-geal bu bhoidhche a’ lùbadh 's a’ snàmh_  
_'S a’ tuiteam mu ghuaillean Blath-Bheinn._

_'S truagh nach robh mis' ann an eilean mo chrìdh',  
Eilean mo ghràidh …_

Arnheiter sang as he had before, only the tune except for a few words here and there that he knew the sounds of. On the last verse, however, he remembered more of it.

_Chì mi am Meall, agus chì mi an Sgòrr;  
Slinnean Churaing agus Binnean an Stòrr,  
Healabhal Bheag agus Healabhal Mhòr -  
Beul nan Trì-Allt is Geàrraidh._

The Scottish officer and the German corporal finished the last two lines together. “There’s a good lad!” Cameron said, delighted, and thumped him on the shoulder. "One day I shall teach you what the words mean."

“Did I hear that right?” Tully frowned, puzzled. “Hell of a what?”

“Oh... No. That verse is all names of places. There’s a pair of flat-topped peaks in Skye that are called in English ‘MacLeod’s Tables’. But in the Gaelic, we say _Healabhal Bheag_ and _Healabhal Mhòr—_ that is, Little Healaval and Big Healaval.”

“Okay... So what does Healaval mean?” Now Hitch was curious.

Cameron chuckled. “No one knows anymore. It’s an old Norse word, they say, from when the Vikings came to the islands, but the meaning is lost in the mists of time.” He looked at the rest of them again. “You lot are full of surprises, aren’t you?”

_Well, that’s a load off my mind,_ thought Troy. _We don’t have to worry about the lieutenant accepting Fritz. They’re hitting it off just fine. Who would have guessed they know the same song?_

The next task ahead of them was to familiarize the lieutenant with the way they handled sending coded messages, so he joined in with several of the Rat Patrol’s code practice sessions. On one afternoon in the kitchen, Troy was showing Cameron the U.S. Army’s M-94 cipher cylinder. It was a steel cylinder made up of twelve smooth disks a quarter-inch thick, each with the twenty-six letters of the alphabet marked in random order on the edge. The disks were arranged in a certain order using a keyword, and then to use it the sender rotated the disks until he spelled out the word he wanted, and then took the cipher letters as a row of letters anywhere else on the cylinder. To decipher it, one had to form the codewords on his cylinder, then turn the cylinder until he saw a a row of readable text. “We used it a lot in the desert, sir,” Troy explained. “It’s quick, and simple, and it gives us something to fall back on in case.”

“Yes, I can see how it would be. I do believe it’s your Thomas Jefferson who devised the original version, isn’t that right?”

Troy grinned. “It sure is. Some still call it a Jefferson wheel.”

* * *

[1] In Britain, the lowest floor of a multi-story house is called the ground floor; the first floor is the floor above that (what Americans would call the ‘second floor’), and the floor two levels above the ground floor is called the second floor (third floor in the USA).

[2] _Eilean mo Chridhe:_ "Island of my Heart" _._ Recording at: <https://youtu.be/ePHygkZ9c2o>; Lyrics (Gaelic and English) at: <https://lyricstranslate.com/en/eilean-mo-chr%C3%ACdh-tha-island-i-love.html>


	3. Catching A Train

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the first mission for the Rat Patrol with their new officer, Lieutenant Cameron, who is an unknown quantity. Can they pull it off?

**21\. December 1943**

That Monday afternoon, Moffitt was on the telephone in the library, talking with his family. Everyone was surprised, therefore, when the phone rang in the radio room. Presently, Arnheiter came out, smiling. “It’s for you, Sergeant,” he said, motioning toward the desk in his room.

Troy grinned as he followed the young German and picked up the telephone. _This is more like it…_

“Your job,” said MacDonald the next morning as he was unfolding a map, “is to stop a train. The Gestapo has captured the leader of the French resistance in the Rouen district, one Ètienne Garneau. They are taking him to Gestapo headquarters in Berlin. He must not be allowed to get there. You’ll get no direct help from the local resistance; they’re lying low for the moment so no one else gets caught. You must get him off the train, or see that he does not get to Berlin alive.”

“Just like Jesse James,” commented Tully when the plan was explained to them back at the house.

Cameron frowned. “Who was he?”

“An outlaw. He and his men stopped trains and robbed them. They robbed banks, as well.”

“Ah, I see, like Dick Turpin. Highwaymen.”

“Yes, like Dick Turpin, said Moffitt, nodding, and turned around. “Never mind,” he warned Hitch, who had been just about to ask who Dick Turpin was.

Troy had to chuckle, but then Cameron went on with the briefing. “The train leaves Rouen at 0700 in the morning. Our plane takes off at 0100 here. The drop zone is in the countryside about forty miles outside of Rouen and five miles from the railroad. So, once we land, we’ve got a five-mile trek ahead of us; the major said there may be mines in the area, just to make things interesting.”

In the darkness, pale canopies floated down like so many dandelion seeds, swaying slowly toward the earth. One by one, the five men landed and rolled. Troy was the first one on his feet, and he checked each of the others in turn. “All right, Lieutenant?” he whispered, as he reached the officer.

Cameron wriggled out of his harness and nodded. The others were all in good shape, although Moffitt muttered under his breath, “My mother did not rear me to be a _Fallschirmjäger._ ” He hated heights as much as Troy hated confined spaces.

“Nor did mine, Sergeant, “ replied Cameron, amused, “but needs must when duty calls. All ready, men?”

“Ready,” Troy answered. “The ordnance is all here, and we didn’t lose anything.”

“Good.” Cameron knelt, quickly set up the radio, and then sent the message to tell Mac they had arrived and were proceeding as planned. Within five minutes, they had their acknowledgment, crisply sent and with no errors, despite the new codebook. “I say, that Fritz of yours is a sharp lad, isn’t he?”

“That’s why I got him,” said Troy, simply.

“Right-oh. Our train’s coming for us; let’s not keep it waiting.”

Checking the compass, they moved silently northward into the darkness.

About an hour and a half later, they reached the rail line. The countryside around had been heavily shelled at one time; they had found that out the hard way, when Hitch wrenched an ankle in one of the shell holes that was partly hidden in long grass. “’s all right, Sarge,” he’d muttered through his teeth when Troy helped him up. “I’ll get by.”

Cameron and Troy surveyed the area in the predawn twilight. “We’ll plant the charges here, and here,” said Troy, having had a good deal of experience in blowing up railroad tracks. “That’ll stop it one way or another. Either they put the brakes on, or derail the train.”

“Hmmm. Not sure we want to derail it,” said the lieutenant, thinking. “We want to get Garneau off, but if the train’s wrecked, they may just shoot him. Can you blow the charges far enough ahead, that the engineer will put the brakes on? Then we can get aboard fast and find Garneau. Moffitt and Pettigrew can deal with the guards, and Hitchcock can cover our retreat with the machine gun. That ankle’s bad; he can’t walk without somebody helping him. Then we’ll be away into the heather with Garneau, and we can make our way back to that vineyard we passed. The farm house is in ruins, but the cellar looked sound enough. We can hide there until nightfall, when we can be picked up again.”

Troy nodded. “Sounds good. Come on, Moffitt, let’s get to it.” They spent the next hour carefully laying wires and planting hidden charges, while Hitch and Tully connected the wires to the detonators. As they worked, Hitch was swearing under his breath from the pain in his injured ankle. _Hope it’s not broken_ , Troy thought while they worked. There was nothing they could do about it here, anyway.

Cameron knelt and laid an ear against the rails. “I think it’s coming.” Just as he finished speaking, a long whistle sounded. “This is it, lads, here she comes,” he hissed, with the war slogan of clan Cameron coming back to his mind: _Chlanna nan coin, thigibh an seo, thigibh an seo, ‘s gheibh sibh fheoil...[1]_ He’d been out of the fighting a long time...

At his signal, Hitch shoved the handle of the detonator, and the charges blew. Immediately, the train braked, shrieking down the rails and showering sparks. As it slowed to a stop, two pairs of armed men swiftly sprang aboard from both sides. The passengers in each car turned to them with frightened eyes, as they searched. The door of the last car was locked—Troy blasted the lock, and ducked as the door opened and bullets flew. He dived, rolled, and came up firing. It didn’t quite go as they had planned; he had his hands full with the SS men, as Moffitt charged through the door and made for the corner where Garneau was bound and gagged. Slashing through the bonds, he hauled the Frenchman to his feet. Tully was coming to help Garneau walk, when one of the guards leaped for him with a knife. Cameron yelled something unintelligible, seized the German from behind, and flung him bodily against the window, shards flying as the glass shattered.

Tully and Moffitt grabbed Garneau, hustled him out, and leaped to the ground, while Troy and Lt. Cameron followed. Behind them, in the car, there remained only silence. The raid to rescue Garneau had taken all of fifteen minutes. They’d been too busy to hear any shots from outside the train, but there had been some; two more guards had been accounted for by Hitch as he crouched unseen in the bushes. “All clear, Sarge,” he reported. “Nobody’s gonna follow us.”

“Good job. Let’s shake it, before anybody shows up.” As Troy spoke, Tully moved to help Hitch get up; Garneau didn’t need help walking, once he got the circulation back to his legs. Fortunately, the Frenchman was unhurt; the Gestapo had apparently been waiting to get him to Berlin before starting on the rough stuff. “We can radio back to London once we get to that vineyard.” He eyed Cameron, who was pale and breathing hard. “You all right, Lieutenant?”

“What?” He seemed to be coming back from somewhere else, inside him. “Oh, aye, Sergeant. I’m fine.”

“Good. You know, sir, you’d be real handy in a bar fight.” _I don’t know how he did that...that guard must have outweighed him by twenty pounds at least_.

Friedrich Arnheiter looked at his watch. Ten a.m. They should have done it by now, but there had been no word. His frequency remained obstinately silent. Back in the desert, in a similar situation, he’d have paced the floor. With that outlet for frustration now denied to him, he burrowed in the desk drawer and pulled out a pack of cards. Dealing them out on the desktop, he passed the agonizing minutes in an endless game of Patience. Again and again, he laid out the cards, moved them, dealt more, won, lost, shuffled and dealt again.

At last, at twenty-two minutes after eleven, his call sign came through as welcome as birdsong after winter. He typed out the five-letter code groups one after another; it was Hitch on the other end, and they had practiced sending and receiving from each other until it was a fine art. The message ended, and he took off the headphones. He read through the letters, looking for all the characters that they were using as spaces and periods. With the words all separated, he decoded the message with the new code book, seized the phone to Mac’s office and dialed.

“MacDonald here.”

“Arnheiter. They’re all right, sir, they’ve done it. RAID SUCCESSFUL. GARNEAU SAFE. NO PURSUIT. WAITING FOR PICKUP ARRANGED TIME.”

“Well done, lad. They had me worried, they did.”

“Me too, sir, me too...”

The plane that was to make the pickup developed engine trouble, so the Rat Patrol had another night and a day to hide in the deserted wine cellar before they could go to the open field where they would be met.

Two days after they had left London, very late at night they were all gathered once again in the library. It had seemed more like two weeks, while they were hiding in the middle of occupied France for thirty-six hours. Arnheiter was glowing with happiness; all his friends were back, safe and sound. Hitch was on crutches for several days, as the sprain was a bad one and it had been made worse by walking on it. Their doctor, Major Carey, had strapped it firmly, but it would take some time before it healed. 

David Cameron surveyed his new men, satisfied beyond his hopes. “I say, lads, that was marvelous. Troy, you’ve certainly earned that reputation of yours.”

“Thank you, sir.” Troy grinned. “I have to say, we couldn’t have done it without you. And I’m not kidding—if we weren’t back in action by New Year with an officer, they would have broken up the patrol, sent us back to our own armies, and Fritz would have gone back to that listening post down in Kent.”

“What? I didn’t know that!” Cameron was astonished.

“No, sir. Mac decided not to tell you. He didn’t want to pressure you into taking us on, if you didn’t want to. He wanted you to volunteer, not be roped into it.”

The teakettle whistled, and Tully went to make the tea. When he returned, Troy got up to turn the radio on. Finally, Hitch could stand it no longer. “I don’t believe it!” he exclaimed out loud from the leather armchair where he was sitting with his leg up.

“What is it, Hitch? Something wrong?” Troy frowned. “You OK?”

Hitch was incredulous. “I’m fine, Sarge. You guys don’t even know what day it is, do you?” As if on cue, muffled bells began to ring from the church tower down the street. “It’s the 25th—it’s Christmas!”

Cameron laughed softly. “My word, so it is. I’d no idea. Merry Christmas, lads.”

Moffitt poured the tea, and handed the cups around. “God bless us, every one.”

[1] “Sons of the hounds, come here, come here, there is meat for you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here are a few useful references for the edification of the reader:
> 
> • About the availability of sweets in wartime Britain: https://www.cocoaandheart.co.uk/blog/read_167823/list-of-wartime-sweets.html.
> 
> • Woolworths' pic'n'mix counter: http://www.woolworthsmuseum.co.uk/pnm3dand6d.htm.
> 
> • The U.S. Army/Navy cipher cylinder device: https://maritime.org/tech/csp488.htm


End file.
